My Dog, Spike
by Pisces
Summary: So completely stupid. I mean, /really/. It all spawned from a conversation me and a friend of mine had, in which we considered the fact that Spike sounded like a dog's name. And... Here's the result. Faintly disturbing in an amusing fashion.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Cowboy Bebop. There.

**Author's Notes:** So completely stupid. I mean, _really._ It all spawned from a conversation me and a friend of mine had, in which we considered the fact that Spike sounded like a dog's name. And... Here's the result. Faintly disturbing in an amusing fashion.

**Warnings:** It just.. shouldn't have happened.

_My Dog, Spike_

The door to the dusty, red tinted sunlit bar opened, and in walked a man.

He was a rather imposing man, tall and strudily built. Highly defined muscles where displayed in all their rock hard glory by the short sleeved shirt, jumpsuit of grey molding perfectly to a firm body. A scruffy beard detered from premature balding and added to rough features.

His name was Jet Black, and he was on a mission. 

A few steady strides brought him to the counter of the backwaters bar, where he claimed a stool for his own. An easy grin was directed towards his neighbor, but his words were to the bored looking bartender.

"So, barkeep. Know any good places to make some quick cash?"

Jet's neighbor, and one of only three of patrons, gulped nervously under the friendly stare. The bartender just spit into a glass, and contined with his blank, mindless wiping.

Jet's grin turned decidedly feral, metal arm tapping a distracting rhythm on the counter top. "I'm looking to make me an easy two million woolong."

His neighbor blanched. "...cowboy..."

"That's right, Mr. Random Bounty Dude." Jet turned away from the man, and settled both elbows on the counter. "Barkeep, shot of whiskey, best stuff you got." A mug of plain beer was placed before him, but Jet didn't bother to complain, just wrapping both hands about it and grinning now down into its froffy, amber depths.

RBD, true to his Random Bounty nature, pulled out a gun and yelled, "You'll never take me alive!"

"Oh, I wouldn't shot me if I was you." Jet took a sip from his mug, and made a face at its taste, carefully setting it back down.

"And why not, Mr. Bounty Hunter?" RBD was looking rather cocky on the delievering end of his weapon, aimed straight for Jet's head.

"'Cause my dog wouldn't like that very much."

"Your...!" RBD burst out laughing. Jet looked mildly reprouchful, but not very worried. "Your _dog?!"_

"My dog." Jet nodded, and tried another sip. This time didn't yield any better responses. The black eye of the semi-automatic .45 wavered in and out of his periphial vision.

"And where is this horrible dog of which you speak? Hum?"

"He should be..." Jet twisted in his stool, offending RBD with his lack of fear, and let loose with a percing whistle. "Hey! Spike!"

A lanky man, heretofore unnoticed by the masses, detached himself from his casual resting lean against the outside door frame, and ambled in. Though his large mass of fluffy green hair and seemingly impossibly wiry frame were not exactly normal, his rumpled suit was. His loosly knotted necktie was normal. His yellow shirt was normal. His rolled up sleeves and boots were also, quite normal. But what was the most abnormal thing of all, was the leather dog collar wrapped securly about his willowy neck, and the heavy chainlink leash hanging limping all the way down to his knees.

This newly entered chess piece of a man grabbed the other stool beside Jet without a word, and instantly began to slouch against the counter.

"......" RBD unconsciously let his gun droop, and stared at Spike, who stared back with lidded, uninterested eyes. "..._That's_ your dog?! _BWAHAHA!"_

Jet didn't answer the RBD right away, instead offering his beer to Spike, who, oddly enough, sniffed it before turning it down. Jet shrugged and turned to RBD, who was busy gulping down dry, arid air between laughter. "Nothing wrong with my dog."

RBD snickered. "Oh, yeah?" He reached over, and grabbed the lapel of Jet's jumpsuit, pulling the burly man towards him and almost off his stool. "What's he gonna do about this?"

Jet stared down at the offening hands. "I really wouldn't do that." he advised.

"Or what? What's your scrawny, underfed 'pooch' gonna do, huh?"

Jet sighed wearily, as if it was all just getting old. "Spike, sic 'em."

In a flurry of motion, Spike had lept up onto the counter, slammed a heel on the junction of RBD's neck, and flipped over his head, using his shoulder's for support. One long fingers hand gripped RBD's wrist, a foot kicked out and bashed into the bounty's ankles, knocking his center of balance out from underneath his weight. Spike's elbow rushed up to meet the falling RBD's nose, but luckily the slender man sidesteped before too much blood could stain his precious suit. RBD bashed into a stool, interupting his fall for only a few seconds, before landing in a crumbled heap on the dirty floor. Spike was instantly back at Jet's side.

Jet pursed his lips at the groaning Random Bounty. "Didn't I tell you?" Jet reached down and slapped a pair of handcuffs on RBD, and hauled the man to his feet. He then gathered up Spike's leash, and wrapped it firmly about his hand a few times. "Spike, come." He whistled, tugged lightly on the chain, and walked out of the bar, leading a swaying, bloodied bounty, and a Spike, who had to pause occasionally to growl at little old ladies who wanted to 'pet the nice doggy'.


End file.
